The last resort, p.16
The Last Resort, page 16
‘We’ll get the chef to come out and speak to us,’ Sofia says.
Even Mel is tucking into a full plate. ‘This is incredible,’ she says.
Quinn looks around at everyone enjoying food together. What a beautiful sight.
Everyone apart from Andreas. He is knocking back another whisky, the bread and dips on his plate untouched. He stares at each of them in turn, a look of despair on his face. Suddenly Quinn sees themselves through his eyes. Greedy people seduced by their senses. Gorging themselves at someone else’s expense. She shakes the image away, determined not to let Andreas’ negativity spoil the evening.
Still, when the next wave of food comes – platters of fragrant falafel, slow-cooked shoulder of lamb and grilled whole chicken – Quinn finds herself racked with nausea. She shouldn’t have let that doctor give her a tetanus shot. It’s having a toxic effect on her finely tuned system.
Mel pushes her chair back and stands up. ‘Just going to the bathroom. Won’t be long.’
Quinn nods and turns her gaze to the sea and the glowing red embers of sunset. Darkness gathers around the table. The citronella candles spill pools of light onto the white tablecloth. When Quinn drags her attention away from the sunset, she sees an elderly couple at one of the other tables have ambushed Mel on her way back from the bathroom. The man and woman pose, cheeks pressed together as Mel takes a picture of them with a mobile phone. When she hands the phone back to the elderly man and tries to walk away, he traps her in conversation.
‘This is the best meal I’ve had for ages.’ Zoe dabs her mouth with a napkin. ‘No offence, Joe.’
‘None taken,’ he says.
Holly rests her head on his shoulder. ‘You’re still our number one.’
Joe and Holly’s display of closeness makes Quinn think of Blake. One afternoon they came to Peyia and swam in the sea caves. Afterwards, as they dried off on the hot rocks, he laid his head on her chest.
‘I’m so different when I’m with you,’ he said. ‘You have this incredible healing effect on me.’
She wonders what he’s doing now. Who he’s with. All of a sudden, she feels old and tired and washed up, like the shipwreck silhouetted against the evening sky.
Andreas grabs his half-empty bottle of whisky and staggers along the table to sit beside Quinn.
‘Hello, old friend,’ he says.
‘Hello,’ Quinn replies, distracted by the sight of Mel and the elderly man approaching the table. Behind them is a tall, rangy man with a shock of bleached white hair. A bodyguard, Quinn assumes, from the look of his smart black suit and threatening demeanour. When Grigor stops the trio a few metres away from the table and talks to the other bodyguard, Mel slips away and hurries back to Quinn.
‘Sorry,’ she says.
‘Who is he?’ Quinn asks.
‘Some old Russian guy who says he recognised Sofia. He claims he knew her grandfather.’ She looks at Andreas. ‘You’re in my seat.’
He points to the other end of the table. ‘Take mine.’
‘Quinn?’ Mel says.
‘I’m fine,’ Quinn tells her. ‘Honestly.’
As Mel picks up her plate and stalks off to claim Andreas’ empty seat, Grigor approaches Sofia and whispers in her ear. When she nods in response, he beckons the elderly man and his bodyguard over to the table. As the older man gets closer, Quinn sees he has the red, bulging nose and ruddy cheeks of a hardened drinker. He is smartly dressed in pink trousers and a white linen shirt, but his white, shoulder-length hair is slicked back with gel and he has a coarseness about him.
Sofia stands and shakes his hand. The man addresses her in Russian in a booming voice. Sofia nods before sitting down again.
‘This is Roman Timchenko,’ she announces to the table. ‘He says he knew my grandfather.’
Roman surveys the table, as if noticing Quinn and the others for the first time.
‘These are my friends,’ Sofia says. ‘I’m staying with them for a while.’
‘Very nice,’ Roman says. ‘Cyprus is a beautiful place.’
Sofia’s face shows no sign of anxiety. If she is perturbed by her two worlds colliding, she isn’t letting it show.
‘Ivan and I knew each other in Moscow,’ Roman says. ‘Long, long time ago.’
Sofia smiles. ‘So you were a gangster too?’
Roman laughs. ‘Everyone is gangster then. But most of us, we are not as successful as Ivan. Not businessman like him.’
‘He did well for himself,’ Sofia says.
‘But now I cannot complain,’ Roman says. ‘For years I live in London. Is a shitty place. Then I retire and my wife and I live in Limassol a few years now. Is a good life on this island.’ He examines Sofia’s face. ‘You look like your grandfather, but do you have his killer instinct?’
An uncomfortable silence settles on the table. Sofia reaches for her champagne. ‘I think so,’ she says, ‘but only time will tell.’
Roman laughs again. As Sofia resumes her conversation with him in Russian, relieved chatter breaks out amongst everyone else. Joe and Holly discuss the varieties of local cheeses on the table. Carl and Zoe feed each other mouthfuls of succulent lamb.
Andreas glowers at the invading Russian. ‘These people,’ he snarls, shooting Timchenko a dark look. ‘Russian mafia taking over my island.’
‘Retired Russian mafia,’ Quinn jokes, trying to lighten his mood. She resists the temptation to remind Andreas that Russian money is paying for his mother’s exclusive care home. Andreas was only doing what any good son would do. More men should love their mothers that way.
‘They will kill you,’ he says, his voice low and threatening.
‘The old Russian couple?’ Quinn smiles. ‘It’s okay, I think I can take them.’
‘It is not funny.’ Still clutching his whisky, Andreas slides off his seat and kneels on the ground beside her. ‘These people,’ he says, gesturing around the table. ‘They will kill you.’
‘You’re drunk,’ Quinn says.
Andreas props his whisky between his knees and produces a delicate silver bracelet from the pocket of his jeans. ‘You need this.’ He shows her the evil eye charm dangling from it. ‘You need protection.’
‘Andreas, I don’t—’
He cuts off her protest by grabbing her right wrist and fastening the bracelet around it. ‘There,’ he says. ‘I fear it is not enough, but it is something.’
‘Andreas.’ Quinn takes his worn, lined face in her hands. ‘No one will kill me.’
Tears swell in his eyes. ‘Yes, they will.’
‘Look how attentive Sofia’s been since my accident. Getting the doctor out, getting me the crutches.’
‘She wants to keep you alive for her big finale.’
‘You’re being ridiculous.’
‘Sofia is right. Everyone has a price.’
‘What’s that, Andreas?’ Sofia enquires from the other end of the table. Quinn looks up to see Timchenko has gone, leaving their party alone again.
‘I am telling the truth.’ Andreas grabs his whisky and, with the aid of the table, hauls himself to his feet. ‘I tell her you will kill her. All of you.’
‘Come on, pal,’ Joe says. ‘Take a seat and I’ll order you a coffee.’
Andreas waves the whisky bottle in the air. ‘I know this. In my heart. You will kill her and you will take the money.’
Sofia looks on, an amused expression on her face. Dmitri rises from his chair.
‘I know this because I would do it,’ Andreas says. ‘When you decide to kill her, I will agree.’
‘You’re drunk,’ Quinn says. ‘You don’t mean any of this.’
‘Skatá,’ Andreas says as the bottle slips from his hand and hits the decking with a sharp crack. When he picks it up, Quinn sees the bottle’s neck is broken.
‘Sit down, Andreas,’ Mel says.
‘Arrest them for murder, Detective Mel.’ Andreas sways precariously, the jagged neck of the bottle glinting as it catches the candlelight. ‘Arrest them all.’ He laughs. ‘Arrest yourself.’
‘That’s enough,’ Carl says.
‘Please stop,’ begs Zoe.
‘We shouldn’t have let him drink like that,’ Holly says.
Pavlos comes over to investigate the noise. Before he can reach the table, Grigor steps out and touches his shoulder. Shakes his head at him.
‘Pavlos,’ Andreas says. ‘My friend.’ He rattles out a stream of Greek, which Quinn doesn’t understand but, from the way Andreas is pointing at her and then Sofia, she is sure he is telling Pavlos some twisted version of recent events.
Pavlos leans towards Grigor, listening as the big man whispers something to him. Eventually he smiles and turns back towards the restaurant.
‘Hey,’ Andreas says. ‘You need to help us.’
Quinn reaches out and touches his hand, but he shakes her off and bolts, chasing after the waiter. Dmitri springs into action but Mel jumps up from her seat and gets there first. She blocks Andreas with her body and grabs his wrist, forcing him to release the bottle with a yelp of pain. He shoves her aside and keeps running but when he meets Grigor, his bullish strength falters and Grigor soon has him in a headlock.
‘Enough,’ Grigor says. ‘Enough.’
41
HOLLY
2019
The scene at the restaurant was ugly. No doubt about it. Poor Andreas. That’s what happens when a troubled, paranoid man drinks a bottle of whisky.
When Grigor grabbed him, it was as if the full effect of all the alcohol in his system kicked in. He struggled for a few moments, and then his eyes rolled back in his head and he blacked out.
Despite my efforts to come to terms with my past, I couldn’t help my reaction to the violence unfolding before me. Fight, flight or freeze. Our three physiological reactions to any real or perceived threat. When my Uncle Mike first raped me, I froze. Lay beneath him like a corpse and let him do whatever he wanted. That night in Dionysus by the Sea, I sat frozen in my seat, my heart racing.
We managed to get Andreas out of the restaurant and into the back of one of the Land Rovers. We apologised to the restaurant managers and the waiters. Sofia left them a very generous tip.
Up until then it was an amazing evening. Great food, great views, great conversation. The unexpected visit from the old Russian man, which turned out to be something I should have paid more attention to. When Sofia made her toast to new beginnings, I really thought we were headed for a fresh start. I was too busy enjoying myself to notice how much Andreas was drinking.
What happened when we got home was as distressing as the scene in the restaurant. When Joe and Grigor hauled Andreas out of the back seat of the Land Rover, the fresh mountain air jolted him awake. He shouted at us again. Threatened to go to the police in the morning and tell them about Sofia’s offer.
‘Sorry, Sofia,’ he said. ‘I cannot let you do this.’
Then he vomited all over Grigor’s polished black shoes. After that he passed out again and Grigor and Joe took him to his room. The rest of us followed and watched as Grigor put Andreas on his bed in the recovery position and placed a bucket on the floor nearby in case he needed it. We all agreed he needed to sleep it off.
In hindsight, I can see we should have stayed with him, but as the saying goes, hindsight is always twenty-twenty.
42
QUINN
2018
Aphrodite is sprawled on her side at the foot of the bed, deep in sleep and twitching with dreams. Quinn, wide awake, watches her cat with envy. It is almost 5.30 a.m., and she hasn’t slept all night. How could she, after what happened at the restaurant?
Sunrise isn’t far away. Light creeps in through Quinn’s open window, along with the smell of pine and jasmine.
Her right foot throbs. Two hot, distinct points of pain where the snake’s fangs entered her. If pain is, as she believes, the body’s way of trying to communicate, what is her body trying to tell her?
The bracelet Andreas gave her is still fastened around her wrist. The evil eye looks up at her, glassy and blue. You need protection.
She can’t shake the image of him in the restaurant, charging after the waiter with the broken bottle in his hand. Brave of Mel to intervene like that. She must have dealt with plenty of drunk people during her police career. Quinn feels lucky to have someone so multi-skilled in the Pure Heart family. Someone so loyal.
Part of her is dreading the coming day. What if Andreas still wants to go to the police and tell them about Sofia’s offer? Hopefully he was too drunk last night to remember what he said.
She needs to stay positive. Last night’s excesses might have purged Andreas of his paranoia. He might have hit the rock bottom of his current drinking spree and come to his senses. Tom Quinn believed the honest expression of difficult feelings to be fundamental to wellbeing. Members of the Islington commune took self-expression very seriously. The sound of sex saturated the townhouse day and night. Vicious arguments and furious debate heated the unheated rooms. Screams ricocheted off the damp walls. Tom was a great champion of scream therapy.
A banging noise startles her. Seconds later, she hears movement in Grigor’s room as the big man hauls himself out of his bed, the mattress springs sighing. She recognises Dmitri’s voice and then comes a low, urgent discussion in Russian.
Aphrodite opens one eye and stretches as Quinn gets out of bed and shuffles her way into her living room, where she shoves her feet into the unyielding Crocs and grabs one of the crutches to lean on.
When she taps on Grigor’s door, Dmitri answers. Even at this time of day he is immaculate in his suit trousers, shirt and waistcoat.
‘What’s going on?’ she asks.
In the background, Grigor is buttoning up his shirt.
‘Andreas is gone,’ says Dmitri.
‘Are you sure?’ Quinn asks. ‘What do you—’
‘There is problem with Wi-Fi,’ Grigor says. ‘The alarm is not working.’
‘Maybe he went out hours ago,’ Dmitri says.
Quinn’s foot throbs. ‘Do you think he’s gone to talk to the police?’
Dmitri sighs. ‘I don’t know. All the cars are still here and the gate is still closed.’
Grigor interjects in Russian.
‘Yes, he could have walked up to the road,’ Dmitri says.
‘I will drive up to the road.’ Grigor picks up a holster from the bed and slips it over one shoulder. A black pistol peeks out of it. Quinn shudders. She tells herself Grigor is contractually obliged to wear it. The gun is part of his uniform, just like the waistcoat he is buttoning over it.
‘What’s going on?’
Quinn turns to see Mel bounding up the stairs.
‘It’s Andreas,’ Quinn explains, ‘he’s missing.’
As she and Mel follow the bodyguards down the stairs, Quinn fills Mel in on what the men have told her. With each step, she forces herself to put more weight on her foot. By the time they reach the ground floor, she hardly needs her crutch at all, despite the discomfort.
Grigor heads out of the front door to the car park.
‘I will tell Sofia,’ Dmitri says, before hurrying away.
‘What shall we do?’ Mel asks. ‘Should I get the others?’
‘Not yet,’ Quinn says. ‘I need some air.’
They head out to the courtyard. Quinn inhales the clean mountain air. A crescent moon hangs in the dawn sky, sharp as a scimitar. Some of the cats are on the prowl, slight figures darting behind statues.
‘Will Andreas go to the police?’ Mel asks.
‘I hope not. He’ll only be wasting their time.’
‘Maybe it would be best if he does. For all of us.’
‘Why? To say what? No one here is going to take Sofia up on her offer.’ A sharp cry from the heavens. Quinn looks up and sees a large bird of prey circling. Watching them with its clear vision.
When she looks down again, she spots something she didn’t see when they first stepped out into the courtyard. A wisp of smoke rising up from the olive grove below.
‘It’s okay,’ she says, a smile spreading across her face. ‘I know where he is.’
43
QUINN
2018
As soon as Quinn lifts the blankets at the entrance to the sweat lodge, a tangle of smells greets her. Burnt sage, the sharp tang of alcohol, a sour hint of body odour and another, herby smell she can’t immediately identify.
‘Andreas?’ she says. ‘It’s only me.’
How her heart lifted when she saw the smoke. Andreas wasn’t on his way to the police station. He was purifying himself. Sobering up. He’d soon be back to his old self and they could talk rationally about recent events.
When she steps inside the sweat lodge, an unfamiliar scent assaults her. Meaty. Fleshy. It travels down her throat and sticks there, making her want to gag.
Mel enters the sweat lodge, forcing Quinn deeper inside. As Quinn’s eyes adjust to the gloom, she sees the outline of a slumped figure.
‘Andreas?’ Her voice is croaky and strained. Her heart batters against her ribs.
Mel pushes past her. ‘Prop open the door. Get some light in here.’
Quinn does as instructed. The dim light that floods in illuminates a terrible scene. Andreas, naked, face down in the lodge’s pile of hot volcanic stones.
She retches, the meaty scent rising up in her throat. She watches as Mel grabs Andreas’ shoulders and pulls him upright.
‘Andreas.’ Mel shakes him. ‘Andreas.’
One side of his face is charred. His eyes are wide open. Vacant. Quinn doesn’t need police training to see he’s already dead.
Mel lays him on the ground, tilts his head back and puts two fingers in his mouth to search for obstructions.
‘It’s too late,’ Quinn says.
‘We have to try.’ Mel puts her hands on Andreas’ chest and pumps hard. Quinn retches again as Mel proceeds to pinch Andreas’ nose and put her lips against his half-melted ones. The image of the grinning skeleton swims before Quinn’s eyes in the pale dawn light. Was the Tarot card trying to warn her Andreas would die?
